The Downfall of Evil
by Plans of Evil
Summary: City of Heavenly Fire AU. What would happen if Jonathan had not burned out from Clary's flames, and instead happened to wake up confounded in a dark cell, having to deal with the atrocities of his previous crimes and to face a new, lighter side of himself?
1. Chapter 1

Hey guys, first try at The Mortal Instruments fanfic. Hope you like it!

City of Heavenly Fire AU. What would happen if Jonathan had not burned out from Clary's flames, and instead happened to wake up confounded in a dark cell, having to deal with the atrocities of his previous crimes and to face a new, lighter side of himself?

_The throne seat Jonathan relaxed in was large, his back comfortably sunken down on pillows embedded in some soft material; silk most like. Or linen? Jonathan had a distant memory of picking them out especially for this occasion, wanting to give an elegant style to the previously plain throne; dark crimson achieving its desired effect of making the seat look, if possible, more threatening._

_Undoubtedly a seat for a king, no, a leader; a feared and respected leader. _

_Jonathan could look down on his subjects from up here, show them his superiority. The throne was a simple reminder that everybody who doubted him was wrong about his failure, wrong about him. _

_On his white hair a crown lay, a crown of royalty, a token and reminder of his victory. _

_Flames reflected in his wild black eyes, flames of the world burning down as he looked up in satisfaction from his seat; innumerous screams like a symphony in his head. _

_His world. His new creation. In some ways, he was like a god, an improved one, if he was one for judgement. The world was his, Clary, who sat next to him with an equally beautiful crown on her red curls, was his as well. She was his queen, and together they would rule their kingdom, or live long enough to watch it burn in the process.  
_

_The thought made him smile despite himself. Considering the circumstances it even felt somehow genuine, but as Jonathan previously figured out, the world doesn't like to gift him with genuine things._

_As if sensing it before it actually happened, a ragged cry was constricted in the ruler's throat. The solid platform that once held him steady gave way, a work intricately constructed of iron and copper collapsing upon itself piece by piece as the pillows dissolved into ashes, and the metal scattered broken on the ground._

_A ringing sound was loud in Jonathan's ears and ashes a bitter taste in his mouth. _

_Now without support he felt himself falling, desperately trying to cling onto thin air, even as the flames faded and his vision darkened.  
_

_"Jonathan!" A voice screamed. "Jonathan, my sweet brother, where are you?" _

_Jonathan frantically tried to search around him, he seemed to be momentarily suspended in darkness, no light showing way to the voice calling out for him. _

_"I'm here," he yelled breathlessly. "It's too dark to see." _

_Unexpectedly a sudden warmth enveloped him, and Jonathan found himself wrapped in an embrace with the person he was searching for. _

_"Clary?"_

_"Why did you do this?" She now seemed to be crying, her face slowly being illuminated, a few salty tears staining her cheeks. "We could have been happy, but you wanted it all, didn't you?"_

_"What do you mean?" _

_"The throne, the world, burning it all to ashes like you would've burned me to reach your ends." _

_Jonathan wanted to snap at her, to tell her how much bigger any of this was than her, how he worked hard for this and would never have to weigh his dream over her life, about to tell her how puny and small she truly was. But even as the words tracked his mind, he started wavering; feeling a resoluteness he hadn't felt before. Suddenly, in a strangle of fog that cleared his mind, Jonathan didn't really remember what was the purpose of his plans anymore, why he had condemned so many people to the grave. His heart lurched in pain and he felt himself tremble, remembering himself laughing as he spilled the blood of Shadowhunters and Downworlders alike, carefree in his judgement. Was he wrong to do so?  
_

_Biting his lip hard enough so to draw blood, Jonathan felt himself grow cold once more, his laugh coming cruel and booming while they both were suspended in what seemed to be his mind's limbo. _

_"You always know where my priorities lie, little sis." _

_He roughly grasped her, digging his fingernails into her shoulder blades hard enough to bruise. He enjoyed the way she squirmed under his firm hold, her enmity back, and her eyes defiant as he kissed her and she spit vehemently in his mouth in disgust. _

_For a few blissful moments he was entangled in her, and her eyes drooped just the slightest, and her biting grew more infrequent as she relinquished some of her power. _

_Whilst his mouth fought to keep his control over hers, he felt a heat radiating between them, Clary's muffled screaming in his mouth as fire began to catch on her. Her face melted in flames, a morbid, scorched look staring back at him. Her screams grew distant as she disintegrated, flames torching her skin as if it would a cloth, slowly but powerfully until everything turned to ruin. The burnt taste of ashes again stained his mouth, and with a choked scream, he felt himself being drawn back to consciousness.  
_

Jonathan woke up distressed, breathing heavily, chest heaving, his body soaked in cold sweat from his nightmare.

Every inch of his body seemed to tremble at the memory, and in place of ashes, he only felt disgust. He swallowed weakly, letting his tongue roam hesitantly over his lips.

The lips he dreamed were kissing his sister. _Clary**.**_ His... Sister in blood. His face twisted in horrid realization. In his dream, his conflicted halves battled, and his darker half won, and that side of him seemed to enjoy the feel of his sister's tongue fighting his own, the feeble attempts at defiance only thrilling him more.

Shocked, he raised a hand, as if searching for some remnants of a crown nestled in his hair.

He only made way halfway before he got stuck. Only then had Jonathan noticed that his hands were confined in chains. Once pulling himself to a seating position, he heard a metallic sound, letting him know that his legs were chained as well.

_It would be best if you refrain from sitting up, please._ A sudden voice appeared in his head. He turned his head right, and was met with the presence of one of the Silent Brothers. It took him more than a few seconds to piece together what had previously happened, memories suddenly clear as he retraced the event. Jonathan's heart hammered in his chest. Clary's sword in his heart. Why hadn't he died? How did he get here?

"The Clave required you to t-torture me before you kill me?" Jonathan asked, his voice unexpectedly breaking.

It wasn't like him to lose control over his own voice, Jonathan had always remained composed, his voice was either hard or smooth, but never broken; never hesitant. A lesson his father taught him well.

_Father told me that you're only as confident as you sound. _Showing weakness verbally or physically will turn the person in himself weak, he had told him. Every time he mumbled, trembled, or had tears hidden in his eyes, his father would discipline his child, usually with the help of a whip. Other times with the help of words.

Trying to regain some upper hand, Jonathan lowered himself from his bunk with a jump, surprised to learn that the chains on his feet and arms gave him the space to do so.

The Silent Brother moved silently towards him. _Sebastian, I fear that you must return to your place. The Clave has required that I must use force if needed in order to contain any disobedience, force you might find unpleasant._

Jonathan gave the Silent Brother an inquiring look, and with a defeated sigh, returned to his bunk.

"My name is Jonathan, by the way," he said casually.

The Silent Brother didn't linger long, and soon Jonathan saw him make move to leave through the door.

_Wait in your place. Don't move._ The voice of the Silent Brother sounded in his head, and then with silent footsteps, he left the room.

Jonathan studied his surrounding for a few minutes, finding the spacious room seemingly empty despite the bunk he was laying down on and a flickering light that kept only a small space bright enough to see in. Although unable to see beyond, Jonathan had a strong feeling that more equipment was hidden in the darkness, and that even now, eyes were on him.

Alternating to staring at the ceiling, Jonathan started thinking.

He remembered what happened. He remembered how everybody bowed to him, well, everyone except Jace. But how did he get here? Is it possible that he died? Was hell truly this... similar to his world? He closed all the gates back out, so it shouldn't have been possible to have survived this. Even if by some miracle the sword that struck him hadn't sent him straight downwards to hell, surely Clary and the others would have put an end to it.

Jonathan felt an odd sensation, as if his blood had been purified, an odd sense of remorse taking place where seeking vengeance and battling for domination used to reside.

He almost felt something akin to... fear. It should have disgusted him, after all, Valentine had worked meticulously to squash these pestering feelings out of him, tried to make a... monster out of him? No no, Valentine had wanted to make him strong, to make him less pitiful than the others, to train him with the skills of a leader.

Did he lack as much compassion as Jonathan had? Had raising him like this been... wrong? He never seemed to think so, but now his head convulsed in itself and he could hear screams, distant but fathomable, the people whose families he probably ripped apart.

How could he have been so blind? Did he truly think Clary would be capable of loving him after everything he'd done? Or did he think forced, manipulated love was the best he could get without ruining his plans?

Suddenly feeling wearisome, Jonathan closed his eyes, and a few seconds later opened them, hoping for once that he was truly dead and this was only some hallucination before his judgement.

The room was still as dark and empty as before, a few droplets of water leaking from ceiling to create a repetitive splashing noise, one that matched the quiet rhythm of his breathing.

Subconsciously he reached for his bracelet, to twist it around in his fingers to keep his mind from wandering, only to realize it wasn't there.

Instead, he bit his lower lip. Better the taste of blood than the taste of ashes, or the bile that threatened to go up his throat at the thought of him forcing himself down on his sister.

Besides the pain helped him think, helped him understand himself better.

Assuming he actually survived, which seemed to be the probable answer, why not kill him straight off? Why risk him gathering his strengths back and causing more harm? Is the Clave planning on torturing him, making him atone for his previous crimes before finally getting rid of him?

The door opened in a screech, snapping him back to his reality; the cold reality of being stuck in what appeared to be a dungeon, with his captor having full access to do whatever he desired to do to him.

It took a few moments for the blond to show his face, as if he was hesitant if to enter or not.

It was unmistakable who that blond was.

Jace.

Jonathan's heart pace quickened at the sight of him, and it took all his courage to swallow the unfamiliar aching fear, and make a turn to sit upright on his bunk.

In the corner of his eye, he spotted Jace's hand curled tightly around his sword, and with a sinking feeling Jonathan knew that it was meant for him.

He was going to kill him. Or at least make him agonize until he does.

Breathing became harder. To die by your strikingly handsome adoptive brother once is one thing; dying by the same hand a SECOND time is likely to paint the Morgensterns as a quite dysfunctional family. Throw in a hateful sister, an abusive father, a guilt driven, murderous mother and you got yourself one amusingly colorful family meal.

That was if Jace ever acknowledged himself as a Morgenstern, which he doesn't.

Either way, dying didn't really appeal to Jonathan.

"Jace-" he began to say, and quickly regretted it.

At the sound of his voice, Jace lifted his weapon and pointed it towards Jonathan's chest, unflinching. Cold, dark malice was hidden in those golden pearls, and now with the ability to sympathize, Jonathan knew that it bore true hatred for him.

"On your feet." Jace commanded of him, his tone a match for his cold, hard eyes.

A chill crept up Jonathan's back and he awkwardly stumbled on wobbly feet.

He hates me, he thought. He hates me and he's going to kill me. Like I killed Max.

Jonathan, once being quite curious about the ways of physical torture, knew that predicting what was about to come next for him was going to be impossible.

Jace seemed like an old fashioned sort of guy, but Jonathan was convinced that the blond was under strict orders, and the Clave would want his death to be a painful one.

Perhaps Jace would start out by cutting his fingers and come back an hour later to cut out his tongue? Maybe he would like to carve a drawing with his sword on Jonathan's pale, tingly flesh and afterwards, once Jonathan would be an incorrigible, weeping mess on the ground, void of various fingers and swollen of cries, Jace would finally give him the mercy of a quick death?

Jonathan had always suffered from an over active imagination, or maybe it was the newfound paranoia he was experiencing.

"Give me your hand." Jace spoke, and Jonathan did as he was bid.

Ah, so they would have him cut off his hand first? Just like last time? How morbidly ironic. Jonathan felt himself regretting offering him his right arm on instinct. His good arm.

Jace took hold of his forearm with both hands, leaving the rest of his arm uncomfortably exposed as he was made to stretch open his hand.

Jace's hands were hot on his flesh, as if steaming from rage. He lowered his dagger to Jonathan's skin, who awaited his fate. He only wondered if the ministry would give him enough time to get used to a life without a hand.

To his surprise, Jace only lightly grazed his skin with the dagger, leaving a scratch small enough that one could think an angry cat had left the bruise with sharp nails. A few crimson droplets of blood fell from his arm and onto the shiny, stone floor.

Jonathan raised his head to give Jace an inquiring look, almost screaming for him to stop teasing and rip his arm from his socket if he so pleased, but Jace only stared at his forearm, as if waiting for something to happen.

When nothing did, he wrinkled his nose. His features softened the tiniest bit.

"You have a few minutes to get ready, prepare".

The dagger which he had cut him with was sheathed back to its place, whilst Jace marched in quick steps towards the door. He opened it, lost in thought, and that's when Jonathan called after him. "Wait," he said and Jace paused momentarily, but not turning his way towards Jonathan. "Where am I going in a few minutes? Am I trading confinements"?

"Ah," Jace curtly replied, taking another step out the exit. Jonathan vaguely noticed that Jace never made eye contact with him since he cut him, oddly enough. "That we might find out soon enough." He ended the conversation with a smile that Jonathan didn't see, slamming the door on his way out.


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: We do not own Jonathan, and probably other stuff.**

The door slammed open, and through it stepped three Shadowhunters; two of them well equipped with weapons in hand, looking brawn with a strong build and viciously unwelcoming faces. From the corner of his eye, Jonathan could spot a bag carelessly held by the third Shadowhunter, the content inside he could only venture a guess.

Jace told him to prepare, now was that a cruel jape to vex him? To prepare for what, being suffocated in a bag, or to have three Goliath like guards guide him to some execution of sorts? Jonathan felt almost foolish that he dared hope that Jace had come to the dungeon to give him a second chance, to maybe rescue him, help him find a way to make amends. A mistake he would never have made before. He never presumed to trust people's intentions, he was always wearily careful when it came to trusting people. Heck, the only time he trusted Jace was when he was under his control, and even then he guarded him.

"Sebastian Morgenstern," the dark skinned Shadowhunter intoned, and even while feeling a distant urge to tell him he preferred the name Jonathan, he realized now was probably not the right time to correct him. "The crimes you have committed against the Shadowhunters and Downworlders alike are considered to be crimes against humanity. You murdered many innocents and caused them to fight their own. These acts have not been forgotten. For these accusations you are put on trial by sword- you have a quarter of an hour to get ready, make sure you wear the clothes that you are given."

Maintaining a professional air, although Jonathan was more than sure he would rather crush him than act civil, the Shadowhunter proceeded to hand him the bag. Inside there were a clean looking suit, and a pair of nice leather shoes. The institute rarely chose to dress their witnesses, but Jonathan was nothing if not special. This would be an extremely painful trial to deal with, he knew.

"In the end of the trial, your punishment will be decided."

The guard didn't even make the effort to suppress a cruel smile when he said the words, he was already certain of Jonathan's punishment, much like Jonathan himself. A death sentence was indisputable, what to come before was still debatable.

The chains made his moves clumsy as he struggled to put on the pants and straighten his tie. Mortified, he had to ask the help of the guards that waited outside to tie his shoes, unable to reach them with hands tied together. The suit he wore was dark, and the tie was of a crimson color. He didn't know if it was supposed to symbolize something, but knowing the Clave picked it out, it probably did.

Jonathan passed many corridors, dragged on by his chains, anxiety beginning to prickle on his skin and he realized his hands were sweaty. He kept his eyes casted downwards on the ground as he walked, quiet until they reached the destination of what he assumed to be the trial room, the entrance door made out of dark stone.

Jonathan heard voices behind the door; elevated shouting and many whispers that joined together into one big jumble of noise. He didn't want to go in there. He didn't want to face all the faces of those who had lost their dear ones. He didn't want the grief of those people to feel so real to him, to see the aftermath of his actions. Of course, he wasn't given a choice. It felt like he was never given a choice, the minute he was born to be Valentine's son. It would be worse if he didn't know it to be false, all this time, he did have a choice, but he promptly chose to ignore his options. Why must he have changed? Facing his crimes with a smirk would be so much better than this. Spitting on hateful faces and laughing at their sobs surely would be better than feeling so timid and small. The Shadowhunter that had led him here went for the door, but in a scramble of thoughts, Jonathan blocked his way.

"Wait, can I see Clary before I start? I just want to apologize."

"And I just want my brother back. Apologize in the grave," he spat.

Opening the door, he pushed Jonathan in, making him almost stumble and fall. The entire racket that had just seconds before filled the room had been brought down to painful silence.

The room was built like an amphitheater; many wooden benches were facing a rectangular dais where the Inquisitor was perched respectfully behind a lectern. Besides him the Consul was standing.

Countless amounts of faces were staring at him as he made small steps forward, forced to move quicker from time to time with a rough push to his back. The audience in the room was all wearing white, the traditional mourning clothes of the Shadowhunters. It made him feel so out of place with his black suit, leather shoes making quiet thumps in the silence of the room.

Jonathan looked through the abundance of faces, trying to see if he recognized any of the faces staring hatefully back at him. Most were the faces of strangers. It felt like he was suffering from a lapse of memory, surely he must know these people? Or maybe he never really did care for the families of the people he killed. The Lightwoods he did remember though. They were staring at him with a look of malice, and he seemed to recall he killed a family member of theirs. He felt his hands tremble yet again, and he tried to breathe evenly.

Feeling overwhelmed he was about to return to stare at the floor again, but then he saw a glimpse of red hair. Clary was sitting besides Jace, who was hugging her to his side protectively. Jace had a hard look to him, void of feeling, but it felt dangerous. It felt like he was threatening him with his eyes. Clary, on the other side, seemed surprisingly indifferent, almost sympathetic in her look, but when he tried to catch her gaze, she turned her head.

It shouldn't have surprised him, he already prepared himself for bitter disappointment, but now without even one friendly face in the crowd, he felt more alone than he ever did before.

Before him stood a stand, and on top of it a sword. Jonathan recognized it immediately; the Mortal Sword, the sword that would drive the truth away from of his lips until he was writhing on the ground. No one wanted to make this trial easy on him.

A cough disturbed the quiet. Jonathan climbed the stand until he was facing everyone in the audience and had a clear view of the Inquisitor. In the light, Jonathan's heart skipped a beat as he recognized Robert Lightwood with his back erect in the seat of the Inquisitor. That was it, he was finished, someone cut his throat now.

Being the one to hold the stand, Robert was the first to break the silence. "I believe you are aware of why you're here?"

"Y-yes."

"Okay then." As the Inquisitor, Robert tried with might to contain his voice in the most professional way possible. Still, a bit of hatred slid its way into his words, making them icy cold. "Take hold of the Mortal Sword and we shall begin the trial."

He nodded once at the command, and made way to grab the sword. Once his hands made contact with the steel, he felt as if lightning had struck him and instinctively drew away his hands.

"What is wrong?" The Inquisitor looked quite impatient already, his calm voice a mask. "Do you need someone to tie your hands around the sword or do you think you can restrain yourself?"

"No, it shouldn't be necessary. I apologize." Jonathan swallowed a shaky breath, and bit his tongue. Without any more complaint, he seized a strong grasp on the sword, letting the pain of it wash away on him.

It wasn't quite like conventional pain, Jonathan noticed. It felt more like the sword was working its way through his body, making his blood flow the wrong way. For a second he felt compelled to just run away and take his chances, but instead he just bit his tongue harder. Either way he didn't have a chance to survive, but at least here they would give him a trial first.

If the pain was evident on his face or not it didn't matter, no one seemed to care anyways.

"I believe we can follow proper procedure now."

Even as Robert spoke, Jonathan felt himself getting buried more deeply in this stinging feeling, drawing solace from the way his focus was purely on physical pain. Mental pain was sure to follow. He did his best to stay conscious of what was going on.

"Jonathan Christopher Morgenstern you stand accused for the destruction of the demon towers, the impersonation of Sebtastion Verlac, attempt at genocide; murder of Shadowhunters, Downworlders, amongst them children." Robert Lightwood paused for a second, suddenly not the Inquisitor, but a father, a father of Max Lightwood, who died by Jonathan's hands. Jonathan bit his lower lip harder than before, the taste of blood like a mosquito bite compared to the pain he felt from the sword and the impuration of his heart. He remembered the look on Isabelle's face when he killed Max, a mirror of what her father was feeling for him right now. "These murders were done in cold blood, in cruelty and without remorse. You destroyed families, friendships, made people live in fear while under our sworn protection."

Jonathan felt the pain intensify, every word like a dagger in his heart all over again. He heard the drumming of his heart, and felt the sweat between his hands from the pressure of which he was holding the sword, feeling very much faint. There was an impossible heat in his body which he could not control, waiting for the moment to just confess to these crimes and hear the sentence.

"Am I speaking it true?"

Jonathan didn't really understand the question very well, but it didn't matter, for his lips moved to their own accord. "Yes, everything you said is truth."

A small smile tilted on the Inquisitor's lips. "The schemes you planned on carrying out, or at least the ones we know of, they have failed. Do you attest to it?"

"Yes," he answered disquietly.

The look Robert gave him was victorious, he seemed to enjoy the way Jonathan was fidgeting, the way the more he held the sword, the paler he got. "Are there any other schemes or plans of yours in motion right now?"

"No, sir. None"

In between breaths, he felt dizzy, he felt heavy, he felt like his blood was on fire. He was looking up from half lidded eyes, and trying to grasp a stronger sense of reality by scratching his nails through his fists.

"Do you regret your actions?"

"Yes." Jonathan felt himself let out his answer like a breathless prayer, the pain subsiding slightly only to be replaced with fatigue.

"If you were given an opportunity, would you repeat your previous crimes?"

"No." It was weird, Jonathan wasn't aware he was talking, and yet he was. He felt a lot of eyes boring on him, adding some sort of imaginary weight on his shoulders. Whispers were already passing freely through the crowd.

Robert paused for a moment, a sign to let the gatherers quiet down so he could continue in his interrogation. "You had certain requests from Clary Frey and Jace Lightwood, I have heard," he began saying, looking seriously into Jonathan's unfocused eyes. "What were your intentions towards Clary Frey?"

Jonathan's brain worked only fast enough to piece together the question and send a message back to his body to react in fear. The tired state that controlled his body mere seconds ago was gone, and he felt his eyes grow wide and alert. He fought with himself not to answer in truth, not to say something that might betray how shameful he felt. "Please, don't ask that, please... It's-it's complicated," he pleaded. Jonathan never pleaded. He was a writhing mess, his shaky hands barely gripping the sword anymore, but still keeping contact.

"Jonathan Christopher Morgenstern, this is a question and you must answer in truth. There was a time period where Clary was confined with you and Jace Wayland. You didn't make any attempts of ridding yourself of her, knowing full well that she was there to sabotage your plans. What did you want from your sister?"

He felt tears brimming in his eyes, his voice close to betraying him, the words choked in his mouth.

"Is this really necessary?" another voice was added, and in the haze Jonathan realized that Clary had spoken out. All he could tell was that she looked uncomposed, that her red hair was falling down in curls, and that she was speaking out in the middle of his trial. His trial. Shouldn't she be sitting down and enjoying the show just about now?

"Excuse me; I will not have interruptions in my court. Again, I request that my question be answered."

"I believe you might find the answer imprudent to the interrogation."

"I will be the judge of what questions might raise imprudent responses, thank you for your input Clary. Now shall you politely take a seat or might I have to call security to see you out?"

Clary looked like she was contemplating defiance, but Jace took her hand and held her down, whispering something softly in her ear.

The Inquisitor sat taller in his chair and asked the question once again. "Now, Jonathan, what did you want to-?"

Jonathan interrupted, the power of the sword was too strong, he felt the truth on the tip of his lips, compelled to just talk and get the nauseous taste out of his mouth. "-I-I wanted to kiss her. I wanted her to be my queen. I wanted her to love me like I loved her."

There were a bunch of gasps, the audience immediately going into a rush of comments, equally surprised and off put as Robert Lightwood seemed to be. The older man cleared his throat, waiting a few seconds before he spoke next. "And you have...pursued these urges?"

Jonathan felt the tears threatening to fall. He tried to not let them roll free, to keep them in line, to keep himself in line. He wanted to refuse to answer, but his control was gone, and he was a broken mess, and words flew like the wind. "I have. I forced her into it. Once I kissed her when she didn't know I was her brother, but I knew. Another time it was when she joined me to rescue Jace. I fought her bloody. I wanted to make her my queen like I told you, that we would rule together, b-but I don't anymore. I swear it. Please."

"Inquisitor, I must protest. This is personal and ungainly to the trial; I ask that you move on." Clary's voice was hard and soothing, making the weight on his shoulder a feather lighter, but it was too late. Jonathan's brain was wrecked with memories now, broken loose. He was weeping softly, murmuring nonsense, but he didn't cry. He was probably a pathetic display; some part in the back of his head told him that his father would be ashamed. No, he wanted to reply, Father was cruel and he abused me and made me a monster. Father doesn't get to be ashamed of me anymore. Other people get to be ashamed of me.

If there was any time Robert Lightwood looked disfigured, or at loss for words, now was probably the time. The man spoke through gritted teeth and said, "Fine. I'll allow it, not that he deserves it. Clary, you may sit down."

"Thank you, Inquisitor."

In his struggle, Jonathan had relinquished his hold on the sword, his thoughts now returning to something passably coherent.

"I must insist that you return to the Mortal Sword, Jonathan."

"Please, I told you everything. Just sentence me to die already." Jonathan was surprised he managed to say the sentence without stuttering or breaking off in a sob, but he had and now that he had, he looked defeated. "If you're not going to sentence me to die, then just send me back to the dungeon to rot. I can give you possible ideas for retribution if you're lacking, and I promise you they won't be idle but just, please. Can you not see I am not the way I was before?"

The Inquisitor raised an eyebrow at his rash statement, obviously not expecting a call for death. He turned to his Consul, as though he only now noticed them, and they began to exchange quiet murmurs, presumably arguing. Jonathan felt exhausted, all energy drained from him. He wanted to go off and sleep, not stand here on wobbly legs, awaiting punishment.

"Very well. Jonathan Christopher Morgenstern, for all the crimes and atrocities you have committed, I sentence you to death. The method of execution will be chosen in a later date."

"NO!" Clary yelled and jumped from her seat. She boldly ran down to stand directly beneath Robert Lightwood. "Mr. Lightwood, I beg of you. Reconsider. This is madness. You can't condemn Jonathan to death for Sebastian's crimes. Surely he deserves to be punished; you can't wipe away his bad deeds, but give him a chance to prove he is more worth alive than he is dead. Show the goodness of your heart, I implore you. I take full responsibility for him; you won't see him step out of line again."

Robert Lightwood frowned deeply, no longer trying to hide his fury. "You expect me to let this...murderer loose just because you believe he has a change of heart? A black heart is a black heart. Who is to give vengeance to all these people's dead?"

Clary was about to snap back a comment but another voice, somewhat begrudgingly joined hers. "Surely death must be too sweet then. I say let him live to make it up to everyone he had wronged."

Jonathan was only vaguely aware of Jace adding in his voice for his favor; mostly sure he fainted and was just making up the rest of the trial in his head. A trial where Clary and Jace stood up for him and didn't want to see him dead. What a sweet thought, in what messed up world would that convey reality, though?

"I say we call in a vote. You're not the only ones here who have the right to pass judgment on this man. I can promise you though; most here would want to see him dead. I give the court my permission to talk."

The minute Robert allowed people to voice their opinions, the court room turned into havoc, the peace that had been maintained until now let loose like a reopened wound.

"I say death under torture!" a man yelled from the bottom bench, and others nodded their agreements.

"I say death by stabbing, so we can be rid of him nice and easy," another man declared, and stood from his seat.

An elderly looking woman, with white hair pulled up in a tight bun took her stand where she knew others would listen; atop of the highest platform. "Serve him as a meal to the vampires!"

An uproar seized many of the listeners, nods turning into shouts and people rising one by one to suggest their sadistic ideas in turn. Some took leave of their seats and advanced towards Jonathan, making Jonathan drop to his knees and try to squirm away. A hand grasped at him from the side, and he responded with a startled yelp. Trying to wretch free, but finding he had no energy left, Jonathan began to panic, eyes closed like a dog about to be smacked by a newspaper. The strange man, a Shadowhunter, pulled him to his feet and moved him to face the crowd, the stand with the Mortal Sword now behind him like a shadow.

"You see him?" the man said, twisting Jonathan's fingers back until it felt numb.

By then, he felt his limbs catch on fire once again, his breathing shallow as he pleaded. "Please, I am sorry, I am sorry for your families, AH-"

The pleas were not received lightly, his genuine apologies only seen as mocks in the man's eyes, and his fingers twisted painfully back even farther.

"Why let such a man live? You want him poisoning the minds of those we have left? Have we narrowly escaped one danger to let the one who started it cause another?!"

"NO!" the voices of many were joined as one, a booming noise in the accused's head.

"I know, I'd hate me too, but I-I am changed, whatever I can do to prove it-"

"Changed? Can you hear him?" the man said, laughing. The crowd laughed along with him, like he told some joke which Jonathan missed the punchline to. "I suggest if he is so fond of playing the innocent, we should force him to apologize. In fact, his apologies should be the last thing he says before we cut off his tongue!"

More people joined in corresponding supportive shouts, the idea seeming appealing in its cruel nature. It was a mistake to have the trial so soon, their grief so fresh.

Jonathan waited for some authority to do something, to organize the onslaught going on in the courtroom, but Robert seemed uninterested in him or what was happening. Instead he was seized by Clary and was now in a serious looking argument back in the side of the room. Clary was trying to emphasize some point with hand motions, and was given a comment in return that did no help to end their dispute. It was nice of her to try, though. He paused, Jace wasn't next to her. Confused, he looked back to the crowd, pain like a distant hum in his brain now, and found he didn't spot Jace between the faces either.

The guy that was grasping him released his hold all of a sudden. Relief washed over Jonathan. He tried to rub a sore spot in his wrist, but realized he was still in chains.

A hand of placed on his shoulder. It took Jonathan a few seconds to realize it was Jace, trying to quiet the turmoil in the crowd. Charismatic as always, the people quieted to listen to what Jace had to say.

"You can't kill him and I will tell you why, not one of you would be better than him. He is like the Endarkened in some ways, like I was when under his control. I know what it is like to be possessed by something dark; all those who were turned probably knew it too." Jace paused, weighing his words. He probably wasn't half as confident in what he was saying as he sounded. "If you had your loved ones come back, like Jonathan had, and they were back to normal- would you sentence all of them to death? I ask of you not to be hypocritical, if you execute Jonathan for Sebastian's crimes, you must have me executed as well."

Jace's speech caused a great deal of confusion, some were unchanged in their opinions, others murmuring to one another, and some just sat back down and offered no judgment.

"It is true," a more feminine voice assured. Standing next to Jace was Maryse lightwood, and no one was more shocked than Jonathan. "I understand your anger. I also lost a child, I know how it feels. Even so, we can't let our rage consume us and make us monsters. I say we give him a second chance, maybe a rehabilitation program to let him make amends for all the bad he's done."

A few looked as though they might be considering what Maryse had to say, but most looked more doubtful, and some even insulted by the idea.

In all the controversy, Robert made his way back to his honored seat, and was ready to speak. He looked conflicted, unsure of a final decision. "Everybody please return to their seats, it is an order."

Slightly dazed from the new enforcement of authority, people began making their way back to their seats, once again quiet. A distant murmur was heard about injustice, but was quickly silenced out.

"I believe we can all come to an agreement that we can't give proper judgment to Jonathan for Sebastian's crimes. Ultimately though, he does need to be punished- therefore I shall assign him to a 'rehabilitation program', one the Consul and I will resolve." Many voices argued, and Robert raised his voice and it seized as quickly as it started. "_However_, Jonathan will receive no protection by this Institute or any other. If a Downworlder decided to hurt him, or threaten him in that matter, it will be no problem of ours. He is at his own disposal, under Clary Frey's volunteered supervision," he stated, giving Clary a fixed look, "and under our own. It will be seen he causes no more harm. The court is now adjourned."


	3. Chapter 3

Downfall of Evil chapter 3

Jonathan had been sentenced to atone for his crimes, and atone for them he did. At least, for a start.

After the decision of forming up a 'rehabilitation program' to suit Jonathan's current situation, it was first decided, privately by Robert Lightwood and the Consul, that he must have a cleansing of whatever evil thoughts might still linger in his brain.

The 'cleansing' was applied by pain, and the pain was there to remind him of what the end would be for him if he ever decided to withdraw from 'the light'.

It was worded so eloquently that it almost sounded pious, instead of being what was so plainly torture to get even. It ended him in what was undoubtedly the longest and most excruciating week of his life; the minutes crawling and the quiet hours of the night restless from the pulsing of his untreated wounds.

In the darkness of his cell, fidgeting and turning, nobody could stop him from trying to claw through the walls. A person in sweet sleep could not hear the cringing sound of Jonathan's teeth when it sunk into his chains in a desperate attempt to free himself. It was only him who heard it all, the only sounds there was to hear except the clattering of his teeth and the breathless sobs he made when the pain was too unbearable to quiet down in his stingy cell.

It was only a few hours a day that the heavily dressed men would enter and begin their daily routine of creative lacerations, whip slashes and knife cutting flesh scarring his skin and creating new marks where old ones used to reside. It was such a long time ago since he had received beatings that he forgot how he used to stomach it, how he used to stomach pain.

Jonathan was able to dwell on such misgivings when exhaustion won out, and defeated, he would lay his head on the discomforting pillow and accept pain as his friend. It was those times he was left to his thoughts, stuck inside his head. But for him it felt like ghosts lingered in there with him, whispering evil deeds of his past to him while he tried to block them out. Closing his eyes would bring grotesque images, so Jonathan got used to not closing his eyes.

Day after day it was the same, and day after day Jonathan got more pessimistic about ever leaving his cell.

Sitting alone on his bunk, Jonathan thought that maybe one day he could anger the ill tempered men who came to his cell every day and whispered about their liking to kill him, get them winded enough to pull the knife just a bit farther to end all this. All he needed to do was be his old self, find their weak spot and press down on it until it drove them crazy. Even in his debilitated state, he could still manage that.

During the eighth night, with the wounds stinging enough to drive him mad, he had decided he was going to do just that. Rehearsing words in his head, he already could imagine how this day might be his last. He made peace with it, and after all those restless nights with so little sleep, for once he managed to fall into undisturbed slumber.

A distinctive creak of the door woke him up hours later, which seemed to him all too soon. He wanted just a few more hours of sleep, just a few more hours of peace and then he would die without conflict. A searing pain jolted up his spine as he turned in his bunk to a seating position, ready to greet the shadowhunters with a jeering smirk. The smirk dissolved into smoke at the sight of Robert Lightwood standing by the door. The presence of the Inquisitor disquieted him and gave him a healthy dose of mistrust, any confidence he had crushed into a submissive glance at the floor.

"Hello there, Jonathan. You may be glad to know that you have exceeded your time in this cell. We have made to believe you are able to transfer to a different confinement."

Jonathan made a raspy noise in the back of his throat, but didn't answer, not sure if this may be a trick or not.

"If it pleases you, we will remove your chains."

Robert Lightwood was accompanied by two guards, foreign to Jonathan, and one held keys in his hands. Callused fingers grabbed his chains, making the frightened prisoner wriggle, flinching away from contact and breathing raggedly once again. A clink was heard, and his hands were free of their confinement, dark bruises left in its wake. Soon his feet were free as well, muscles tense from long time of inmovement. Even with the ability to move, Jonathan still didn't really feel inclined to rise from his bunk, the matt cold and hard, but familiar.

"I-I would rather stay here, please," he choked out.

Robert seemed to be at the end of his patience even with his showing up just mere minutes ago. Only the slightest trace of pity was heard in voice when he spoke. "Don't be ridiculous, come. We're going to Clary Fray's house, your sister and mother are waiting for you."

Not trusting Jonathan to get to the place he was designated to go to on his own, Robert escorted him through various floors, and long hallways, instructing him on what to say and do during the duration of his stay at Clary's. Jonathan was given clear instructions not to discuss their methods of treatment to anybody, and to remain with a shirt on in the presence of others until such time where his wounds would heal and could pass off as old scars. Jonathan is to act like everything is normal, and keep his behavior in check until given further instructions as to what was to be done with him. Robert made sure to stress it out to him that lulling into a safe sense of security would be unwise, and that going alone outside would be suicidal, since there's a lot who haven't forgiven his undoing.

Nodding at all the right places, Jonathan promised his obedience, and timidly followed Robert as they walked through a long corridor that was filled with pictures of famous Nephilim, most of which Jonathan recognized, hazily remembering some stories.

The last time he had been out of his cell, he had been chained and sent off to trial. Now he was walking free, trying to hide a limp, and if it could be believed, on his way to visit his sister and mother.  
The door they made a stop at was not unique or unlike the others they passed, just an entrance to a common residence in the Institute.

Robert knocked on the door three times, and straightened his back even more, a wave of nonchalance on his face, as if any trace of their conversation disappeared from his memory.

Soft footsteps were heard, and the door opened to the greetings of a woman with ginger hair.

Jocelyn.

Jonathan thought he was prepared, but all of a sudden he felt really self conscious, wanting to run his fingers through his hair to tame the mess he knew it was. He knew he should probably say something, but words failed him.

The guard was bearing most of his weight, so Jonathan could stand properly, but now it felt like he was about to lose his steps and fall over anyways.

Seeing how worried Jocelyn looked, and the pity in her eyes, made Jonathan realize how tired he actually was, how wrecked he probably looked. All he wanted was to find a comfortable bed, lay his head and rest for a few years.

"He's all yours," Robert announced and nodded at the shadowhunter to let go of the boy, and Jonathan shaky on his legs, leaned against the wall to support his weight. Feeling faint and seeing black dots at the side of his vision, Jonathan stayed still to stop his head from spinning. Robert exchanged some words with Jocelyn, words which Jonathan couldn't really focus on, and then he felt a hand balancing him and the door behind him closed shut.

Jocelyn, with a comforting hand on his side, and his left arm draped over her shoulder, was carrying him through the room, and into another, one that he could make out her saying was his to sleep in.

Soon he found himself lying on a soft bed, looking up at the ceiling, and the red hair that led him to the room gone. Letting his exhaustion wear him out, he closed his eyes, and hoped that this terrible day would come to an end. He didn't realize how terrible it would become.

Jonathan woke up coated in sheen of cold sweat, his back stretched out like a cat, and his mind was trying to adjust to the new surroundings. His eyes narrowed at the penetration of bright light that seeped through the crack in his door. For a few seconds, he was disconcerted that he wasn't surrounded by the darkness of his cell, and tried to remember where he was. Then he remembered, he was at Clary's house, Robert had led him here and Jocelyn had put him in his bed so he could sleep.

After a quick inspection of the room, Jonathan noted that on the wooden dresser sat an arrangement of books, a brush to comb his hair, and a mug of what looked to be tea that recently cooled down. The window of his room was shut closed tightly with iron bars, and to make it seem less hostile, was decorated with blue blinds that matched quite nicely with his navy blue sheets. Overall the room didn't hold many belongings, the closet empty, the desk empty, and his energy, as well, empty.

Up on his feet, mussing up the sheets on the way out of bed, he found himself wearing the same bloody, drenched and dirtied clothes that he wore last night to bed. He was in a desperate need for a bath, all soil and dried up blood, but he couldn't find some reason to care about it. Jonathan remembered once hearing that one of the signs of depression is not caring at all about your appearance, or the need to take care of yourself, and he found himself identifying with it. He felt an odd indifference about living, and wished that he could go on without conversing with anyone or draw any attention to himself. Just existing seemed to take too much the effort, so the idea of a bath felt even more droll and unimportant in comparison.

Jonathan mustered up the energy to face the front door and sighed as he took the handle and turned it, even brighter light blinding him for a moment. He adjusted his sight to the light, getting used to living in a place that wasn't full of darkness. Hesitantly, he exited the room, fearing that some shadowhunter was going to jump up on him and take him away.

Nothing happened, though.

Through the hallway and down a flight of stairs, nobody disturbed him. It almost felt easy. But soon the stairs were behind him, and Jace and Clary were in front of him, sitting leisurely on a couch- and then it wasn't so easy.

With words as cold as ice, Jace talked to him, making his skin crawl and the bedroom look more inviting than ever. "You could just stay up you know."

"Leave him alone." Clary lightly hit Jace on the side of his shoulder, and said to Jonathan, "Jonathan mom is making dinner. Jace will lend you some of his clothes, I would suggest you take a shower and come eat with us."

Probably discussing it ahead of time, Jace rolled his eyes but didn't put up a fight. He got up sullen, and motioned for Jonathan to come after him. Jonathan, with one last look at Clary, decided to follow, seeing no other choice.

Jace led him begrudgingly up the stairs, towards one of rooms farther off in the hallway Jonathan recently passed to get down to them, and opened the door to shove him in.

By intuition alone he knew to recognize the room as Clary's. Unlike his own room, Clary's window was opened wide, the blinds hung to the side to let fresh air in. It gave him a guess on what the time was, which he estimated roughly about evening time, so it made sense that Clary's mom... _his mom..._ was making dinner right about now. How long has he been asleep?

"Take this." Jace said, throwing over to him a white shirt and a pair of jeans he found while rummaging in his bag. The shirt Jonathan failed to catch, and he found himself picking it up from the floor and murmuring a "thank you".

"You shouldn't be thanking me; you should be thanking Clary that insisted on taking you in." He eyed him suspiciously, and then proceeded to closing the window shut. "Don't get any funny ideas. The house is guarded, if you would step out of the house, they would know. Now take a shower, you smell like shit."

Nodding his head in the slightest, Jonathan sighed, really just wanting to stay behind a closed door in the bathroom and put the water pressure on so it would give the illusion he was taking a shower, while really he would be just brooding. But certainly the others would smell the sweat and dirt on him, and then Jace would get mad, and what's the point of even picking a fight?

"When you're finished come downstairs to eat." After making the last statement, Jace exited the room.

Jonathan washed his body through with water and a bit of soap, cleaning out the dry blood and letting the warm water clean away the stinging wounds. He threw away his bloodied clothes, and changed into fresh ones. Despite previously feeling bitter about the prospect of showering, he did actually feel better, even if by the tiniest bit. Now he was wishing he took more time with cleaning himself, because much too soon for his taste he was walking through stairs and before he knew it, Jonathan found himself in the kitchen. The appetizing fragrance of a home cooked meal filling the air, and the sound of laughter was heard from the table where Jace, Clary, Jocelyn and Luke were seated. The promise of food had his stomach churning and the promise of conversation had his heart pumping, and the combination of the two left him lightheaded. He found himself oddly wishing he could be treated like a prisoner, and have the food delivered to his room instead of having to sit down with the rest. But the idea was doubtful, and he really was hungry.

Seeing no other choice than to make himself known, he took the empty seat in front of Jace, resolute on being quiet so there would be no need for him to interfere in their meal. Despite his best efforts, Jonathan still couldn't quite be invisible, and predictably at his appearance the conversation that had been going on was halted to an uneasy silence, and all eyes were inspecting him.

Some were less pleasant, like the frown Luke bore towards him, but others were more welcoming, like Clary, who looked like she might want to address his presence but didn't really know how.

For a few moments, nobody touched their plates or made a sound. The first to break eye contact was Luke, who dropped his gaze to a few beans on his plate, and reopened in conversation.

"I heard we're going to have to stay in Idris for a while," he stated as in matter of fact.

Jace shoved the fork into the chicken breast on his plate, pulled it to his mouth, and swallowed. "Well, we need to fix the damage that's been done," he remarked resentfully, looking at the general direction of Jonathan to make clear of whose fault it was. "Until then even the Institutes that weren't harmed need to stay here since they want to bring everyone back together."

"Oh."

Tension hung thick in the air, and it was quiet once more, the only sound being the eating utensils scraping against the plates as the family resumed their meal. Jonathan eyed the food that was already set on his plate, suddenly uninterested in eating it despite how hungry he felt. _It was a mistake coming down from my room,_ he sulked._ It was a mistake not executing my plan of angering the men who tortured me sooner. It was most definitely a mistake that the sword that was shoved in my chest didn't end me. _

Jonathan didn't delude himself with the thought that it would get easier, that he could somehow find a way to fit in here. The only escape was sleep, even with nightmares, it was still better than this. Perhaps if he would ask nicely, Jocelyn would excuse him to his room? He was debating whether to ask, when a voice shook him out of his brooding.

"Jonathan, eat something, please. You look all skin and bones." Jocelyn looked over at him with worried eyes, two green orbs that looked almost warm.

As much as it was touching that Jocelyn was trying to act parental towards him, Jonathan just couldn't find himself in the mood to play along. He was now the son she always wanted, and trying to ignore what he was, and hoping for all its worth that they could start a life with what he is- well, it was a nice plan in theory._ How can I try and pretend that I could still be the child she wants me to be when I am constantly looked upon like I am contaminated? _

He might be able to pretend for Jocelyn, and maybe even Clary, but what about everybody else? Jace and Luke were the mild representation of the collected thoughts of the Shadowhunters who even now might be thinking of a way to get rid of him. For them, he would always be the monster that slew their families, the one that gave their loved ones the drink that would turn their soul as black and dark as his. They would look at him and see Valentine's experiment gone wrong, and it was far too late to change that.

"You must eat something, who knows what they've been feeding you over there."

_Maybe scraps of oatmeal,_ he mused.

Feeling very much defeated for not the first time that day, Jonathan took his fork in one hand and played with a slice of meat before grudgingly putting it in his mouth and chewing. The tilt of his mother's lips in the slightest form of a smile was maybe even worth it.

Now appeased, Jocelyn turned to converse with Jace. "So, Jace, how are your siblings? I haven't heard from them of late." The silence that followed wasn't only uncomfortable, it felt hostile.

Jace took a long bite of mashed potatoes, and drank a glass of water before answering. "They're okay, more or less. Alec brings Magnus home sometimes and I have to get used to them making out again. And Isabelle...well, she's trying to get better."

"Great, that's excellent." Jocelyn murmured and nodded her head, taking small bites out of her own food.

To his great surprise, Clary picked right up on the conversation, her voice like creamed butter in Jonathan's ears. "So, I've been thinking, once we're free to go back to New York, I thought maybe we can all hang out together. See a movie? Or you know anything of the sort." Clary flashed Jace a smile, as if waiting for him to back her up on it, but all he did was smile back, even so with forced effort.

"It sounds like a terrific idea!" Jocelyn commented instead, exultant in her approval.

"To be honest, I think it's a terrible idea." Luke's voice cut Clary's excitement like a knife, and she gave him a puzzled look. Even Jocelyn looked uncomfortable by the sheer bluntness of her husband's words. It wasn't that hard to puzzle out what he was thinking.

What Clary and Jocelyn saw as a chance to bond with a lost sibling and an even more lost son, Luke and Jace saw as being bound to spend time with someone they would easily rather see locked up.

"I can't act like everything is just fine, Jocelyn. I really can't. I had a sister." Luke's voice shook at the memory of Amatis, and he looked like he struggled not to cry. "I am happy for you, I am, but he is not just a revived version of the child you loved. He is a monster, and I can never make peace with that."

Jocelyn looked at him in shock; never had she really witnessed her husband this winded, this angry. "Luke!"

Luke rose on his feet, pushing his chair back with a screech as he did so. "I'm going out for a walk," he said and left. It took Jocelyn a full minute to shake herself from her daze, rise up as well, and follow Luke out the door of their house. Shouts were heard from outside the house as the door was slammed shut.

Barely registering what went on, Jonathan raised his head to find Jace glaring daggers at him, teeth grinding one against the other. His radiant golden eyes shone with petulant rage, and his voice was full of venom when he spoke. "You see what you did? You cause nothing but trouble. You didn't even say a word, and already there are fights. You're putting us in harm's way just by _being_ here. I have to eat crap from people I love because I defended you, because I couldn't let Clary watch you die, because I knew how much it would devastate her. Isabelle and Alec can barely hold a conversation with me without it being strained, and I don't blame them, because they are angry with me. As they should be. I might have defended you during the trial but never doubt that I hate you. I hate you for everything you've done to me, and to others, and I wish you weren't Clary's brother because then I would finish you myself. Nothing you can do might change that anymore."

"Jace, please," Clary intervened in hopes of calming him, maybe just to get him to stop talking, but he only got even angrier.

"Clary, I will love you no matter what, but it was a fool's choice to get yourself involved. Stop getting your hopes up. I would hate to see you start becoming close to him, and see it ripped away from you. He deserved what he got, he doesn't deserve your second chance. I was inside his head, Clary. I know what he did, I know how he thought. You weren't there Clary! You weren't there, so how could you possibly know?" Jace's voice had reached its limit by now, cracking in the middle and dropping to a regular octave. "How can a person with a mind so twisted possibly be redeemed?"

Jonathan felt like he was about to go into a panic attack, claw through the doors or jump through a window, feeling struck by the genuinely of Jace's words. He wanted to throw up the food he ate, search for some escape, cry at the words that were like bile in his mouth.

"Jace, I am begging you to stop." Clary rose to her feet, and Jace followed suit.

"Fine! Clearly we can see who is more important for you at the moment. Let's forget about how he sexually assaulted you, Clary, let's wipe the image of him kissing you from my mind! Surely you remember his slimy hands all over you? But sure, crawl back to him, reward him with forgiveness, why not? I shouldn't be the only one here that's quick to forget. He caused you as much grief as he did me." Jace spared a contemptuous look at Jonathan, who looked so timid and small that he might crack, but Jace was too fueled to feel any feelings of empathy. Letting his rage guide his actions, he cleared way to the stairs, and a slam was heard in time where Jace banged the door of his room shut.

Clary stayed standing in her place for a solid minute before staring at Jonathan, looking positively pale. Jonathan himself blanched, a fork still firm in hand from where he almost crushed it if only had the power. He was disgusted by himself, and not for the first time, not for the last time either. How can Jace forgive him when he can't forgive himself? Jace's voice echoed in his head, driving him insane. Why was Clary still here, why isn't she storming out, why isn't she throwing stuff at his face?

Making light steps, Clary dragged her chair over the side of the table, until it was aligned with Jonathan's and she was sitting right next to him. "Jace is overreacting, truly. Give him a bit of time, and in the end he'll get over it, you'll see-"

"Its okay, Clary, really. Don't try to feel bad for me, he is absolutely right."

"Jonathan..."

"I am not hungry anymore," he declared in a shaky voice and thrust the chair away from himself, making it fall onto the floor. He hurried, almost ran from the kitchen, and sped up the stairs, hoping for dear life that Jace was locked firmly in his room. Even in his weakened state, Jonathan thought he might still be quicker than Clary. He didn't want to take any chances though, so he entered his room as quickly as he could, and shut the door behind him. He stood behind the door, leaning on it, and slowly fell down to the floor, hugging his knees to his body. He lowered his head to rest on his knees, and felt more tired than before, but he didn't sleep.

Instead, he shook himself of all the tears that might be left and decided to hollow himself out. If his decision was to live, he had to learn to deal with these accusations.


End file.
